


Knight Terrors

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Night Terrors, Nightmares, alfred is a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 11:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15750759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Bruce used to struggle with night terrors as a child and the only person who could help him was Alfred. Becoming Batman appears to have brought them back and Alfred is still the best man for the job.





	Knight Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot of younger Batman/Bruce with Alfred.  
> I do not own DC or its characters.  
> I do own this story.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> This is rated Teen for an F-bomb.

He stirred through thick layers of sleep like a man might through mud.

Waking slowly, eyes blurrily making out the shape of the patterned ceiling first, he could see the inlaid fleur de lis and vines printed above. The manor ceiling, his own private quarters. Alabaster on crème, shadowed in milky fingers of moonlight.

He frowned, curling to one side to peer owlishly at his bedside clock to verify the time.

It was close to four in the morning. Too early to be awake, and yet, he was very much wide awake.

Alfred scowled at the hazing red numbers, then pushed himself up on own elbow.

The sound of soft murmurs, whispers like gooseflesh rising on skin met his ears, and he stiffened. Eyes snapping closed, ears straining, he listened for the sound again and this time he heard a quiet moan. As soft as the murmurs, but distinctive.

There was only one it could be.  

Throwing back the thick quilt and down underlay, Alfred stumbled out of bed already stuffing both feet into his house slippers. They scuffed madly on the polished marble flooring as he rushed through the halls. The stillness of the hour would have been welcoming, a haven for weary souls in need of rest, if not for the cries. They were growing louder, quivering in the chilly morning air, pleading for someone to come.

Alfred moved quicker.

Heart lodged somewhere in his throat, he padded down the long hallway that connected his private quarters to that of the master’s. The sound of wailing was loud enough to make out words now. Fevered, terrified pleas amidst helpless sobbing.

Alfred almost tripped over the runner in his haste to get inside the master bedroom.

Thank God it wasn’t locked. Bruce had a tendency to do that.

Throwing open the heavy oak door, he searched blindly in the dark for the bed and was assaulted at once by a sweaty thrashing creature. More beast than man, arms too strong to control tore at the sheets, legs kicked, frantic with terror. A hoarse voice mumbled incoherently one moment, then hair-raisingly clear the next.

“Stop! Please, no! No!”

“Master Bruce, I’m here now. It’s alright.”

“No, no,” whispered, hissing between clenched teeth, “God! Fuck, no. No. It’s—I don’t want—no. Don’t touch her. Don’t hurt her.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred called loudly, over the stream of words, grasping onto a sweat-slicked forearm, trying to reach through the haze of the nightmare. “Wake up. I’m here now.”

The crying grew louder, edging toward a scream and Alfred felt the hard edge of his own fear ratcheting up in his throat. His pulse a thundering companion in his ears.

“Alfred! Please!”

“I’m right here. Open your eyes and see. I’m right here, dear boy.”

“Oh God, no. Alfred, please. Please help me.”

“Wake up, Bruce,” he tried again fruitlessly, shaking the shoulders that were hard as steel, dodging as a fist came terrifyingly close to clubbing him.

And all at once, Bruce went limp. Like reaching the eye of the storm, his body went deathly still and Alfred felt the fear in his chest climb towards panic. It had been so very long since he’d seen him like this. So very long since they’d had to struggle with these sorts of things. He’d not ever thought to be here again. To be on the other end of the terrors that had long ago plagued Bruce.

With a trembling hand, Alfred reached for Bruce’s bedside lamp and flipped it on. Warm, welcome light flooded the room, casting the darkness to the outer reaches. Bruce was flat on his back, face scrunched in pain, hands fisted, body bowed and strung out like he was being stretched by an invisible chord.

He was unspeakably still. So still in fact, Alfred had to strain to see the breaths that moved his chest. Soaked with sweat and ghostly pale against the black of his sheets, Bruce looked ghastly.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred whispered, throat tight and trying to close. He smoothed a hand over the young man’s face, pushing back dark hair from his brow. Nothing loosened, nor did any sound come out of him.

He almost wished for the wailing again. It was less unsettling.

Alfred swallowed thickly, eyes burning, then pushed up from the mattress to retrieve a wet wash cloth from the bathroom. When he returned, Bruce had started murmuring again. It sounded like prayers, whispered and slurred.

Cloth in hand, Alfred bathed his ward’s face with it, smoothing it back into his hairline while keeping a firm hand on his chest. Alfred could feel the fast kick of Bruce’s heart beneath his work-worn palm and it was grounding. Everything would be fine. They’d done this before and it had worked. It had always worked.

It had been years since he’d seen Bruce like this. Years since he’d bathed a trembling youth with a rage then held him as the tremors subsided. Years since he’d felt this sort of unyielding fear crowding in his chest.

He hated how it made his hands tremble.

Working quickly, he smoothed the cloth over neck and shoulders. Long arms muscled through brutal discipline and legs that were marred with discolored bruises. By the time he was smoothing the rag over feet that were far larger than the last time he’d done this, Alfred could feel the taut strain of muscles disappearing beneath his ministrations. Everything had gone lax. Breaths, so quick and frantic only moments before, were slow and deep. Though still ragged against the shell of Alfred’s ears.

When Alfred looked up again, there were a pair of clear gray eyes watching him.

“Alfred…” his voice sounded thin and hoarse. It made Alfred’s heart sink painfully. Still, he managed to answer with nothing less than formal dignity. It was expected, and so he would give it.

“Master Bruce.”

“How bad was it?”

Alfred frowned, looking down at the rag in his hand, now chilly pruning his skin. “It was worse than it has been in many years.”

Bruce shifted, mouth bracketing into a frown as he rolled onto a side, then tried to sit up. Alfred kept a hand on one shoulder, though he imagined the young man fully capable of standing on his own two feet. No physical damage had been done.

Emotional was another story. Unfortunately, for them both.  

“Thank you,” the words sounded thick with something dark and bitter. Alfred recognized it for grief. For pain. And wanted nothing more than to reach over and hug the dear boy fiercely. He didn’t often show his affection for the young man physically, but occasionally even the sternest heart was given to such things.

A hug would not be remiss, would it? Certainly not.

A couple of decades of age did not make a man immune to the need to be touched. Or comforted.

Settling on a half-armed embrace, Alfred gave a gentle squeeze, then started to withdraw almost immediately after pressing in, expecting that Bruce would want this. But was stopped when the young man turned into him and pressed a face hard into the crook of his robed shoulder.

Shocked, Alfred jerked at first, then he heard the ragged intake of breath and felt the wetness of tears through the cotton of his oxford pajamas and then he grabbed onto Bruce hard. It was a desperate sort of hug, one in which Bruce was silent as the grave, save the quivering of emotion he could not hide, and Alfred felt something inside his chest unravel.

“Dear boy, how can I help you?”

Bruce shifted, then drew back, composing himself with quick jerky movements. His eyes were blood-shot and his cheeks pink and it made him look far younger. Even though he was barely a man.

“You’ve done enough Alfred. I’m fine. Thank you.”

Alfred sighed, reaching absently to place a hand on the man’s cheek. Bruce cheek muscle jerked, he but made no move to back away. “Is it worth all of this?”

Bruce looked down, turning his cheek so that Alfred’s hand was forced to fall. A chill spread and filled the space between them.

“Yes.”

“Batman will take more from you. This is only the beginning.”

Such words were unwelcome and Alfred knew it. But he could not have stopped them from slipping out. His need to protect was too strong. His desire to prevent more hurt, too big.

Bruce’s gaze narrowed on a spot of the carpeting, his shoulders twitching in agitation. It needed to be said. They’d both been dancing around the subject since the start of Bruce’s mission to save Gotham, one night at a time. Alfred had done his best to be silent. He’d done his best to support and to help. But seeing his young master come home sporting bullet wounds and knife marks, stitching him up, pretending not to notice the array of bruises…and now this?

He’d thought they were long past the night terrors of his youth. Apparently not.

“I’m fine Alfred.”

“This is fine?” Alfred spoke softly, though he felt his hands fist and his stomach pinch. Was he doomed to see his adopted son die in the streets? Bathed in blood? Tortured by demons and nightmares right up until the end? Was that the future Bruce had imagined for them both?

God, Alfred wasn’t certain he could stomach it. He wasn’t certain he could handle standing idly by, knowing that _that_ was the fate to be suffered in the end.

“I had a bad night.”

“Yes, and how many more will come?”

Gray eyes, hard and angry snapped to brown and Alfred ground his teeth to keep from losing his temper. He was a man of few words and he treasured his refinement. It wouldn’t do to growl like an animal at Bruce. It wouldn’t do at all.

But the boy had always been good at riling him. Always been good at pushing his limits.

“It isn’t your problem.”

“Isn’t it?” Alfred snapped, arms folding. He could still feel the wetness on his neck from where Bruce had cried. Only moments ago. It felt like lifetimes. The change in behavior was typical of Bruce, but no less staggering. The man could close himself off faster than anyone. It had its merits, but now, was not the time. “You weren’t the one on the receiving end of what just happened. I was. It is my business. And if more of that is to come, shouldn’t I have a say in it?”

“No.”

Bruce pushed to a stand, wobbled a little on his feet, then corrected until he was immovable steel. All traces of weakness were gone. All flaws removed. Batman had taken over and Alfred didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

“Fine. It’s that way is it?”

“What way?” Bruce growled, voice low and threatening as he disappeared into the bathroom. The sink flipped on, a glass clicking on granite. Alfred followed and stood in the doorway and then gaped when he saw the array of blossoming bruises on Bruce’s back.  

“Merciful saints.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

Bruce grimaced, gulping down a second glass of water before putting it down. “I’m fine.”

“You look awful.”

It was no less than the truth. In the unflinching bathroom lights, Alfred could see a black eye starting to form, unforgiving blue smearing over pale, pale skin. A split lip. One ankle swollen and angry. And there was more, but it was covered by gym shorts. It would explain the unsteady gait and the painful grimace twisting Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce had taken a beating.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“That’s fine,” Alfred swallowed roughly, “I don’t want to either. I need a moment anyways. I was woken rather rudely and need to get more rest. I hope you can manage on your own. Good night.”

The words had come out poorly. Not particularly smooth or fluid. But Alfred had said what he’d wanted to. He’d gotten his meaning across just fine, thank you very much. And he wasn’t surprised in the least when a strong hand caught his shoulder before he could get all the way out the door.

“Wait. I’m sorry.”

Alfred lifted a brow, more salt than pepper, “Oh?”

“I’m sorry.”

It would have been easier to remain angry. To frostily shake his head and leave.

But he couldn’t. Not when it was so obvious his ward needed him. Not when he looked lost and hurt, visibly shaken by the tormentors of his dreams. Dreams he would never be told about, no matter how often he asked.

“Forgiven.”

It was simply given and simply taken.

They stared at one another for a moment, one old soul looking into a young and then Bruce sighed, stepping back. The argument was postponed. At least for now.

It was already nearing five. Close to when Alfred would be getting up to start his day anyways. It was a curse of having served in the British Intelligence for so very long. His body simply couldn’t sleep past a certain time, no matter how badly he might wish it. He was an old dog, who unfortunately could not learn new tricks. Nor did he want to.

He was set in his ways.

“I’ll put on some tea. Would you like some Master Bruce?”

The formal title had a way of balancing the room again. Of shifting all of the emotion and turmoil back into the appropriate boxes where it belonged. Bruce sagged with relief, his mouth lifting into a weary smile. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Perhaps a hot shower might help those bruises.”

“It might.”

Alfred tipped his head, tempted to reach out and brush the hair that had fallen again over Bruce’s brow then slipped out the door.

The silence and darkness of the manor closed back around him, and he walked slowly in the direction of the kitchen. Thoughts came and went, worries examined and then clinically discarded. He could not entertain worry when it would only lead to more frustration.

Nothing would change. And even if it could, should it? Should he push hard to end something that Bruce felt so strongly in? Would it dismantle the man he was to protect a future that only Alfred could see worth living?

Alfred wasn’t certain.

He needed to think. And to plan.

Bruce would be down shortly. They’d have some tea. They’d talk about the day and steer away from Batman. And Alfred would let it, because deep down, he knew there would be no changing his master’s ways. Deep down, he knew that as much as he was set in his ways, Bruce was set in his own.

And there was likely no changing that.


End file.
